


Americano

by Ghanima_Starkiller



Series: Reimagining Fairy Tales [1]
Category: Cinderella (Fairy Tale), Fairy Tales and Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 08:58:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/672606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghanima_Starkiller/pseuds/Ghanima_Starkiller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reimagining Cinderella in 19th century California, under Mexican rule.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Americano

The estate of Don Basilio de Castilla was alight like a giant chandelier, the raucous sound merriment overcoming even the steady breaking of whitecaps on the cliff face below. Cenicienta approached as if in a dream, feeling as if she were floating on a cloud of white satin that was her gown’s skirt, the remarkable glass slippers tinkling dully with every step against the hard-packed dirt roads. He will not know her at first, her Adelio, and the thought makes her smile behind the lace veil she wears.

It was Doña Madrina de Hada who had helped her, a kindly old woman, more noble than actually wealthy, nearly senile in the opinion of most. She had called Cenicienta over, once her stepmother and two domineering stepsisters had left for the grand fiesta, and for reasons that were solely her own, she had dressed Cenicienta as if she were her own daughter. The clothes were maybe a little old-fashioned, but that only served to make Cenicienta seem more distinguished, more dignified; they must have been Doña Madrina’s, when she had been a girl, and perhaps the answer lay in that, that the old woman wanted to relive some youthful adventure through her young protégé. Or mend some past regret.

Either way, she was here now, and she began to feel as if a sparrow were inside of her, fluttering desperately against the bars of its cage. She is announced as Señorita de Hada and she strolls directly past her stepmother without the woman ever being the wiser. And she sees him: Adelio, her prince. They have met before, surreptitious trysts, but never as equals. He has pledged his heart to her, though he has never been able to pledge his hand—until tonight, when the Don has said that his son may have his pick of any maid who attends the fiesta. And by attend, he meant invited, hand-picked by himself and his wife. Doña Madrina had received an invitation, and so they had unwittingly made possible Cenicienta presence.

Adelio is almost comically trying to avoid the advances of the other maidens, politely accepting invitations to dance, but quickly retreating from their grasping hands. And then he sees her, resplendent in cream-colored satin with gold, crimson and black lace trim, an elegant figure from another time, a ghost perhaps. He takes her hand in greeting and she gives him a curtsey, her dark eyes gazing out from under that veil; their eyes meet, and suddenly, he knows her. He knows his Cenicienta. The girl who sleeps in the hearth ashes, her black hair brushed out until it shimmered in the candlelight, the high-waisted gown accentuating her buxom shape.

His eyes widen slightly, betraying a moment of surprise and then his delight. With his sable hair slicked back, an errant lock falling against his forehead, and the elegant fitted frock coat that he wears, he cuts an impressive figure himself, broad shouldered and heroic. His eyes twinkle with mischief as he grants her a dance, and his parents gaze on eagerly as they become aware of his interest. It is an intimate dance, the tango, almost like making love; unlike the flamenco, their bodies meet and she can feel his warm hands running along her back, her sides, nearing the underside of her heavy breasts. He leads and she follows; it must be a rather gawky spectacle, but she is so completely lost in the moment, she notices nothing but the smolder of his eyes, so dark they are almost black. When they finish, there is a round of polite applause but most of the women present are looking resentful.

If looks could kill, those embittered glares would have become fatal as he fetches a flute of champagne and drinks from it, then pulls her into his arms and presses his lips to hers, sharing the liquor in a kiss. Cenicienta has never had champagne and she fights off a giggle as the bubbles tickle the inside of her mouth; her giddy laughter turns to a moan when the gentle rasp of his tongue joins in. They drain an entire glass this way, and suddenly she finds that her head is spinning. Her hand is in his as he leads her away, the crowd becoming a blur in her gaiety and intoxicated lightheadedness.

And then they are in the stables, the horses not bothered by their presence, only a lantern lighting the hay as a warm, salty sea breeze flows in through the open spaces, with enough of a late spring bite to make her nipples stand taut against the bosom of her gown. His nimble fingers make quick work of her frock’s buttons and he kisses her body through her shift as he follows the gown down to the ground, on his knees behind her, his mouth hot against the thin cotton of her chemise, his teeth nipping through the fabric at her round backside, his tongue running a wet trail along the split between her two plump cheeks.

He turns her so she is facing him now, still kneeling before her, and touching her delicate slippers, his fingers wandering up her shapely calves. His mouth and nose wanders to the place between her legs, her glossy black hair visible through the diaphanous cotton; he breathes deeply, snuffling, kissing her sweltering womanly flower. She is so wet now, a burning ache throbbing within her as her juices begin to seep out onto the silken skin of her pressed thighs. He stands and works the shift down over her shoulders; it catches a moment on the large swell of her breasts, on the dusky, puckered tips. She laughs as he takes her arm and lifts it above her head, twirling her, her hair flowing around her like a raven’s feathers, the lace veil still obscuring her eyes, cheeks, to the tip of her nose.

“My beloved,” he murmured to her huskily as he pulls her into his embrace, kissing her mouth passionately until her lips are swollen. His mouth blazes a damp trail down the curve of her neck, licking at her collarbone, dipping into the hollow at the base of her throat and feeling her groan reverberate against his tongue. His lips find first one nipple and then the other, suckling deep and hard, with a hunger and greed usually shown only newborn babes. He groans, and the dark, engorged bud slips from his mouth with a little wet pop. His fingers brush her jaw tenderly as he murmurs to her, “I wonder what it will be like to drink your milk.”

His words make her shiver with anticipation, overcome with love and lust. “Beloved,” she whispered in a voice that trembles with desire, “I am ready. I am ready for you.”

He arches a playful eyebrow and asks, “Are you? Shall I be the judge?” His hand slips beneath the hem of her chemise, pulling it up around his wrist as his fingers stroked their way to her waiting sex. Her could feel the tip of her stiff clitoris peeking coyly from between her swollen lips and teased it with the ball of his thumb, his other fingers running along her seam, gently working their way between the petals of her inner lips, where her wellspring was gushing her fresh, salty-sweet flavor. He only wiggles the tips of his fingers inside of her; he will go deeper, oh yes, but he wants to make sure she is completely prepared for him first. He wants her begging, calling his name, huffing it into the night. And, as his well oiled pinky travels further back to where her hair begins to taper and probes the other burrow there, the coolness of his gold signet ring tantalizing her overheated skin, she does just that.

Against a beam he pushes her, rubbing his entire body against hers, letting her feel the bulging of the fabric of his trousers as his cock struggled for freedom, pressing it into her flat stomach. His buttons are quickly unfastened and his shaft loosed, so hard it bobs higher than horizontal, the head a swollen purple, like a ripe plum, beads of juice weeping from the tip. Cenicienta reaches down with a gloved hand and grasps him, carefully at first, curiously running her fingers along him, feeling the heat his was giving off through the satin of the fabric, the material drinking up the droplets of his precum on the head. She brings them to her mouth and sucks the satin desperately, moaning in delight as he watches with rapt and intense fascination.

He lifts one of her legs and wraps it around his waist, the other falls to the side to accommodate him as he positions himself at that delicious place to push in, rubbing his length along her and coating him in her slippery sap before he finally penetrates her, lunging in once to at last conquer her maidenhood. They stay like that for a moment, he fully submerged in her, throbbing, feeling her throb around him, tight, clenching. She gave one loud yelp of pain, but that is giving way now to the pure pleasure as he begins to rock his hips, slowly, slowly, slowly, sliding in her only inches at a time. Her thighs are slick with blood, as it his shaft to its furry root as he pulls out and plunges in again, this time, retreating to the ridge of his cock’s crown before charging again.

He kisses his, swaying, pitching her body with every upward thrust. He tickles her clit, rubs his groin against it when he is wholly immersed in her, feeling as if he were pumping into her womb itself. Grasping him, she reaches the heights of her climax, murmuring her words of love, of devotion. He drinks these down as if they were the champagne they had shared earlier and his own finish is diving into him now, head over feet, so dizzying a release, they both cry out to the heavens and collapse to the hay at their feet, a tangle of caressing and sweating lips and limbs and private places.

When the tremulous lethargy over their afterglow stars to dissipate, leaving the pure bliss of true love and consummation thereof behind, they lay in each others arms. Cenicienta glances down and sees that her virgin’s blood as trickled down the leg of her stocking, the leg that had remained on the ground, and has gathered into the heel of her remarkable slipper. She looks at him and his eyes are filled with such worship, her heart aches, and she knows that this is only the beginning, this is youth in full bloom and that it will only get better, only mature. “Will he honor his word?” she asks. “Will your father allow us to wed?”

“I have made my choice,” he replies and then reaches for her bloody slipper. “And now, I have proof that you belong to me.”

And she did, from there forth. And they lived, such lives they lived. Felices para siempre—happily ever after.


End file.
